


Move in Circles

by anr



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not all that disappointed to realise his memory probably has a fault-line or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move in Circles

**Author's Note:**

> Hebrew and Italian translations, and Gibbs' rules, in mouseover.

When he opens his eyes, Ziva's hand is on his neck, her thumb resting over his pulse.

His head is on her lap, her legs stretched out and her knees a few inches from his face. One of her shoelaces has started to unknot.

He thinks her name, parts his lips to even say it, and pain throbs from the back of his skull, strong and nauseating.

Everything goes black.

  


* * *

  


The next time he opens his eyes, he speaks first. "Wha--?"

Ziva's hand slides from his neck to his mouth, her fingers sealing over his lips. " _Shh_."

He tenses automatically, and the nausea drowns him again.

  


* * *

  


He's on the ground, on his side, cool concrete numbing his right arm, hip and leg. A few feet away, Ziva stands near a dirty window, shadows and a thin shaft of sunlight painting her cheekbone, her shoulder. Her gun is in her hands, ready.

He flexes his left hand and feels pins and needles. Shifts his arm and huffs out a breath. She looks over and starts towards him, one step, two.

He rolls onto his stomach, pushing up onto his hands and knees, and the ground spins beneath him. His stomach lurches.

She crouches beside him. "Tony," she says, and he thinks she might be saying more than that but his name is the only thing that registers.

He manages to say, "sorry," before he throws up.

  


* * *

  


"Please tell me you have aspirin."

She shakes her head.

"Ibuprofen? Morphine? Black market ketamine?"

She frowns. "Ketamine is an animal tranquilizer."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"What?"

His head hurts; he thinks he preferred it when they were touching. "What what?"

"You said --"

He knows what he said. "Just --" He waves a hand. "Next time you get the headache, okay?"

She frowns again. "We can not plan who will receive any possible future head injuries, Tony. It does not work that way."

"Try me."

  


* * *

  


He remembers pretty much everything that happened before everything else happened -- the crime scene at Lieutenant Colonel Dodson's, the smell of barbeque in Abby's lab, the phone records that led to Gibbs saying, _DiNozzo, David, go check it out_ \-- but not the everything else.

"Then what happened?"

"We sled down the roof --"

"Slid."

"-- and jumped through the skylight."

"Please tell me you didn't Jason Bourne me to the ground."

"Who is Jason Bourne?"

"Blockbuster, Ziva. Or Netflix. For the hundredth time, _please_." He patches together the rest based on his own observations and knowledge of her. "Door?"

"Locked."

That means nothing. He knows she's only kept it that way because he hasn't been able to move until now. "Window?"

"Too small."

"Do they know we're in here?"

"It would appear not."

"Gibbs?"

"On his way; he and McGee should be here within the hour."

He nods before he can stop himself and breaks out in a cool sweat. Swallowing down bile, he tips his head back to rest against the wall. "Let me know when it's time, yeah?"

"You should not sleep, Tony."

He closes his eyes. "Gotcha."

  


* * *

  


While they wait, he runs through the case details again, changing the smash cuts in his memory to fade in and out's. He's not quite sure why Jack Sparrow was riding a unicorn in the lane next to them on their way out here, but it probably had something to do with the fact that he let Ziva drive.

"Tony!"

He's awake, he's awake. Saying as much, he peels open his eyes.

Ziva's expression is the same one she gets every time he tries to explain the appeal of the _Family Guy_ to her. "Huh?"

Okay, so maybe he didn't say as much as he thought. "Never mind," he says, "'s time?"

She nods, reaching out to grasp his forearms and pull him up. He staggers once he's vertical, letting her steady him until the earthquake under his feet has ended. "Good?" she asks, and he isn't, not really, but he nods once and lets go of her.

"Yeah, good."

  


* * *

  


He stays conscious through the whole of the rescue, doesn't get himself or Ziva dead (or Gibbs or McGee, for that matter), so it's pretty much a win/win ending all round in his mind. The actual specifics as to what's happened are probably just icing anyway.

Gibbs passes him into the backseat of the car with a very definite order to stay awake _or else_ and, while he's fairly confident not even Gibbs would headslap his concussion too hard for disobeying, he does manage to keep himself upright and alert for the first five minutes or so. Then the car starts to actually move.

Rule eighteen; as he closes his eyes, he reminds himself to apologise after.

  


* * *

  


The hospital wants to admit him -- the actor playing his doctor even goes so far as to send him off for a CAT scan, fill out a bunch of the paperwork, transfer him to one of the wards upstairs, and have a nurse hand him a paper gown -- but that's a bluff if ever he's seen one, so as soon as the room empties for him to change in privacy, he counts to ten, grabs his shoes, and heads for the door.

Ziva's in the corridor outside.

It's kind of expected, really. If it were her in here, he or McGee would be waiting outside, ready to catch her sneaking out too; eschewing medical care for all but shattered bones and gushing blood is practically an unofficial Gibbs rule. What's _not_ expected, however, is that she would be waiting a good three doors down from his room, her back against the wall and her head lowered, oblivious to her surroundings and looking for all the world like someone has just --

His shoulder aches suddenly, aches like it did last year, when that was the only pain that made sense. In response, his headache -- which, up until a moment ago, had felt like he had an Abby's lab behind each eye -- takes a second billing and begins emoting off-camera. The nausea makes a surprise reappearance.

Stepping back into his room, he lets the door close in front of him.

When he gets up onto the bed, he favours his shoulder out of habit, cradling his arm against his body.

The gown still sitting on the edge of the bed mocks him. Loudly. Stretching, he kicks it to the ground. "Shut up."

  


* * *

  


Abby whirls into his room and throws herself onto the bed, almost forcing him out of it. She has her arms around his neck, wrist studs digging into his upper back, before he's even halfway through his, _I'm fine, really_ , spiel.

"Abby!" he manages. "Air!"

She lets go immediately, "sorry, sorry," and snuggles into his good side, dumping a paper bag onto his lap.

He perks up instantly. "Burger King?"

She laughs. "Better."

Inside the bag are hospital-like scrubs, skull-and-crossbones caricatures spaced evenly around the v-neck, and the sleeves ripped away. Grinning, he hugs her to him. "Arr, awesome."

  


* * *

  


The food is awful, the chances to sleep non-existent. He's woken every hour on the hour and forced to recite his name and home address and occupation until he's soon contemplating significant life changes. By three am, he's pretty much settled on becoming an astronaut, travelling to Altair-IV in a kick ass rocket-ship and beating on martian ass in an intergalactic war.

Tony DiNozzo, Space Cowboy.

(It's possible he may have actually knocked something loose this time. Maybe.)

  


* * *

  


_What is your name?_ "DiNozzo."

 _Where do you work?_ "NCIS."

 _Where do you live?_ "DC."

 _Why are you here?_ "Huh?"

_Why are you here?_

_Tony -- WHY ARE YOU HERE?_

He's dreaming, remembering, whatever; opening his eyes, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and scrubs a hand over his face.

As if on cue, the door opens, one of the night nurses walking inside. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

He smiles as brightly as he can. "Peachy."

  


* * *

  


Gibbs springs him after breakfast, driving him home and dumping him on the couch.

"Best boss ever, Boss," he says, tipping his head back and relaxing into the cushions. "Another round of wake up bright and I was gonna go zombie on their asses."

Gibbs places a laptop bag onto the coffee table and takes a seat in his armchair. "Yesterday's paperwork is overdue."

He makes a face at the bag. "'Best ever' might have been presumptive."

  


* * *

  


After about two paragraphs, he excuses himself, and heads to the bathroom. On his way back, he detours into his bedroom and flops facedown onto his bed. Gibbs, he thinks, can amuse himself.

  


* * *

  


When he wakes, the shadows in his bedroom have done a neat one-eighty and his headache has finally gone the way of his nausea. Rolling out of bed, he strips out of yesterday's clothes and pulls on a pair of sweats. He'll eat first, sleep again second, then shower and shave and officially rejoin the land of the living.

Ziva's sitting in the armchair he originally left Gibbs in, reading a book.

"Perfectly good TV right in front of you," he says, shaking his head with faux-disappointment as he passes her on his way to the kitchen. "When _will_ you learn."

She closes the book and gets to her feet, following him. "How are you feeling?"

He opens his fridge and leans on the door, eyeing his choices. "Hungry."

"How is your head? Any --"

"I'm thinking Chinese. Maybe Thai?"

"Pizza?" she counters. "Tony --"

He shuts the fridge door and reaches for the phone. "Pizza it is."

  


* * *

  


While they wait for the pizza, he browses for something to watch. Heading for the couch this time, Ziva picks up her book again.

"I'm feeling fine, you know," he tells his DVDs. "You don't have to stay."

She turns a page. "If you wanted me to leave, you should not have ordered enough pizza for two."

Smiling, he resumes his search.

  


* * *

  


"Aren't all weapons, by definition, considered lethal?"

"Hey, Pauline Kael, how 'bout you wait for the movie to actually _start_?"

  


* * *

  


McGee calls, wanting to know where his shiny new fibre-optic computer stick thingy went.

"I'm fine, McGee, really," Tony says through a mouthful of pizza. "Stop embarrassing yourself -- big girls don't cry, remember?"

" _Tony_ \--"

Smirking, he throws the guy a bone. "Try the second desk drawer, towards the back."

"I told you, I already looked in my desk -- it's not there."

Taking another bite, he says nothing, just chews. Over the line, he listens as McGee's chair squeaks and pictures him walking across to his desk. A moment later, there's the sound of his drawer opening and of McGee rifling through it. Then:

"I hate you."

Tony chuckles and hangs up.

Looking over, Ziva raises an eyebrow. 

"McGee just found that computer thing you broke and hid in my desk yesterday morning in a shameless attempt to frame me for your clumsy curiousity," he says, still smiling.

She at least has the grace to look somewhat guilty. "I was not clumsy. It was just --"

"Naughty?"

She picks at a piece of mushroom on her slice of pizza. "Poorly constructed."

  


* * *

  


He works on the rest of his report when he's finished eating, absently reciting lines from the movie as he types.

"I don't understand," she says, and he looks up at the TV automatically before realising she's talking about his report. From her position on the couch beside him, she points at the laptop screen. "Why do you keep writing 'icing'?"

He shrugs. "Because that's what I don't remember."

She gives him one of her _you're crazy_ looks. "But the temperature never dropped below sixty. Why --"

He sends her back his own version of her look. "Icing on the _cake_ , Ziva."

"We were in a storage room, not a bakery."

"It's an idiom." He can tell by the expression on her face that she doesn't get it. He tries again. "We caught the bad guys -- they're the cake. That's what I remember. A lot of the hows and whens? Icing I don't."

"But --"

Looking away, he points to the movie. "Oh, look. Mel Gibson just shot someone. Again."

He watches the TV steadily until she huffs out an exasperated breath and turns back to the movie as well.

  


* * *

  


He finishes with the film, his last keystrokes editing the frosting references out of his report as the credits begin to roll.

Shutting down the laptop, he leans back into the cushions, feeling her shoulder touch his. He stares at the crawl of names on the screen.

"You staying or going?"

She tenses, but only slightly. If they hadn't been touching, he thinks he might not have even noticed. She doesn't answer.

He runs through a quick list of fillers to say before the silence stretches too long, but the only one that even comes close to reaching his mouth involves the words _stay_ and _please_ and not much else.

Swallowing, he keeps his mouth shut and flicks the remote at the TV, turning off the DVD. Getting to his feet, he pauses -- _SAY IT_ , the previously-concussed-and-still-not-thinking-clearly part of his brain thinks, _JUST_ \-- and then shakes his head.

He walks away.

  


* * *

  


When he steps out of the bathroom, she's standing next to his bed.

"Why do you do that?"

He glances over his shoulder briefly. "Brush my teeth?"

"Walk away."

 _Huh?_ "Well, I've thought about skipping, but that just seems kinda girly and --"

"Tony!"

"What?" Moving past her, he heads back out of his room and begins to lock up, flicking off lights as he goes. If she's planning on leaving, she can use her ninja night-vision skills to navigate.

She follows him. "You were going to say something. Before. But instead you left. Just like you alwa--"

Surprised, he stops and turns to face her. "Seriously? You want to get into this _now_? When I'm all concussed and sleep-deprived and possibly thinking about joining NASA?"

She raises her chin. "You said you were fine."

"And you didn't say _anything_ , Pot, so don't even think about calling me black on this one."

"You did not give me time to answer."

"It only takes a second to say yes or no. I'm pretty sure I gave you _at least_ that long."

"It was not a yes or no question!"

"Well, it wasn't the sixty-four K question either!" He can feel a headache beginning. Returning. Taking a breath, he tries for a peace offering of sanity. "Look," he says as evenly as he can manage. "I'm tired. You're tired. Can we _please_ argue about this tomorrow?"

She crosses her arms. "I am _not_ tired."

"What are you, _five_?" He can't believe she's arguing over his reason to stop arguing.

"If I were, I would still have more sense than you."

"My god, you really can't help it, can you? You just _have_ to disagree with me."

" _I_ have to disagree? Tony, you --"

 _That's it_. Flashing her his most insincere smile, he cuts her off. "Okay, just so there's no confusion? I'm going to walk away now before I call you an infuriating bitch."

It's probably a good thing her glares aren't actually fatal. "Lech tiezdayen."

"Right backatcha." Turning, he starts back towards his bedroom, leaving her in the hallway.

He's crossing the threshold when she says, "I was going to stay."

 _Past tense_. His mouth engages before he can stop it. "I was going to ask you to."

He turns out the light.

  


* * *

  


Silence.

Lying in his bed, he wonders just how many brain cells he lost yesterday, and if he can even still count that high now that he's missing them. He'll have to ask Abby tomorrow; maybe her Mass Spec will know.

Opening his eyes, he stares at the ceiling and says, "I know you're in here."

It's only about ten percent a bluff; him not hearing her leave doesn't necessarily mean anything -- she could probably out sneak Elektra on a normal day.

Movement near his bureau. He turns his head and watches her step closer to the bed. "Tony," she says.

And that's all she says. Just his name. And for the first time in his life, he's not sure he knows how to respond to it, not sure he knows what she means by it, or if he even recognises the tone in her voice. Not sure, period.

Quietly, he says, "Ziva."

She moves again, circling around to the left side of the bed. He watches her pull back the comforter and get in, lying down beside him.

He rolls onto his side, facing her properly. "I really am tired," he admits. He kinda hates how relieved he is to have a legitimate excuse to duck and run from whatever this moment is.

She turns as well, mirroring him. "I know." She says his name again, soft and quiet.

He closes his eyes.

  


* * *

  


She kicks him awake at one point, her foot catching his ankle, hard. Pushing himself up and out of bed, he stumbles into the bathroom to pee. By the time he's finished and returned, she's apparently calmed herself, once more sleeping still and quiet.

Climbing back in, he buries his face into his pillow and instantly drops off again.

  


* * *

  


He stirs briefly when she gets up. "What time is it?"

"Almost five," she says.

Groaning, he tugs the comforter up to his nose. "Too early."

If she disagrees, he doesn't stay awake long enough to hear it.

  


* * *

  


She's back in bed when he wakes proper and, as if that weren't enough of a surprise, the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the back of his OSU t-shirt.

Experimentally, he runs a finger down her spine, feeling the fabric shift against her skin.

She's awake. "Tony."

Smiling, he stares at the back of her head. Her hair is a tangled mess, half tucked between her neck and the pillow. "Some reason you're wearing my shirt, Probie?"

"Yes."

He waits for her to elaborate and, when she doesn't, he repeats the first line he drew, this time using his palm. As his fingertips leave her lower back, she rolls over and looks at him, all sleep-mussed and relaxed. His smile deepens. " _Hot_."

She raises an eyebrow.

"You wearing my clothes." His fingers hook into the hem of the t-shirt sleeve. "In my bed." He tugs on the fabric, gently, feeling his knuckles slide against the smooth skin of her upper arm. " _So_ hot."

She smiles. "I have borrowed your clothing before."

"Mmm." She's not pulling away; if anything, her arm shifts closer to him. Letting go of the t-shirt, he runs the backs of his fingers down her arm.

"And we have shared a bed before also. Most recently in Paris."

When he reaches her wrist, her fingers uncurl from her palm. He threads his fingers with hers. "Not like this."

She watches him watch her. "Not like this," she echoes.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, and it's not the first time he's thought that about her, but it is maybe the first time he feels like he could maybe say it. Maybe. "Careful," he says instead, "you're agreeing with me here."

Her smile turns lazy, a rare expression. "For once you are not wrong."

"Hey!" His hand tightens around hers. "I am _often_ not wrong."

"Often would be a gross exaggeration," she says, but she's still smiling and he's pretty sure she's liking this moment as much as he is.

"Zi," he says, only to lose his train of thought as her thumb strokes the side of his hand. His voice fades.

Leaning over, he kisses her.

  


* * *

  


The angle's awkward, his arm between them, and he lets go of her hand, smoothing his palm across her abdomen and anchoring on her far hip. The kiss is soft, unhurried, and there's a trace of morning breath between them, yeah, but it's faint and easily ignored. It's not at all like how he thought their first kiss after all this time would be.

Pulling back, he's a little surprised to realise her left hand has moved to his shoulder, her fingers spreading across the bone that fractured last year. "Uh, hi?"

Her smile is soft. "Hi?"

Her hip is warm under his hand, a distraction. He focuses on what he wants to say. "If you're going to punch or vulcan nerve-pinch me," he says, "I think it's only fair you tell me now."

She licks her lips. "Why would I do that?"

One of these days he's going to remember how her definition of play varies from his. "Because this is my place? Because I'd give you the head's up if we were in your ter--"

She shakes her head. "That is not what I meant." Her hand moves towards his neck, her thumb resting on the curve of his jaw. "Why would I hurt you?"

 _Because that's how this usually plays out in my head?_ "You mean, you're not going to?"

Her thumb rubs against the stubble on his cheek, smile widening. "It is not my intention, no."

 _Oh. Oh!_ A grin that is probably ten different shades of goofy begins to spread across his face. "Really?"

She sighs. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He can totally do that.

  


* * *

  


This time, the kiss is more.

Rolling over, he lets her pull his weight down onto her, his right leg sliding between hers. Her mouth is hot against his, her tongue slick and needy as it slips past his lips, tastes him and retreats. He follows, unable to get enough of her. He feels like he could do this for hours.

The hand on his neck moves to his nape, her fingernails lightly scratching, while her other hand bypasses the hem of his t-shirt. It's not the first time he's had her hands on him like this, but it _feels_ like it and he's not all that disappointed to realise his memory probably has a fault-line or two. This is better.

His palm skims down her thigh and then back up again, encountering only smooth skin as he pushes up her t-shirt, and he groans. "Jesus, Ziva." All that time, lying next to him, and she was wearing _only_ his shirt? His dick hardens even more.

She nips at his bottom lip, swiping away the sensation with her tongue. "Off," she says against his mouth, tugging at his neckline, and as much as it kills him to stop kissing her, he pulls back, shifting onto his knees. He's still straddling one of her legs and the picture she makes against his sheets, all swollen lips and messy hair, t-shirt riding up to reveal bare skin and her hands circling his wrists, is so fucking hot he almost can't process it.

"Do you have any idea," he says, staring, "how gorgeous you are?"

"Still talking," she says warningly, but her expression tells him something closer to _thank you_. He makes a mental note to compliment her more often in future.

"I mean it." Turning his hands over, he grips her wrists in return and pulls her up.

"So do I," she says, breaking free and making for his t-shirt. She tugs it off him, tossing it onto the floor. The moment it's gone, he reaches for her again, framing her cheeks with his palms and bringing her mouth back to his.

She lets him, running her hands over his shoulders and into his hair. She's careful to avoid the goose egg on the back of his head, instead dragging her nails over his scalp. He moans into the kiss and she smiles.

Pulling her leg out from under him, she shifts to her knees, still kissing him, then moves forward until she can slide onto his lap. Keeping one hand on her cheek, he drags his other down to her waist, to her ass, pulling her forward and down until she's plastered against him. She settles her weight and his dick throbs beneath her, so close and yet not nearly close enough. Instantly, he vows to never again wear sweats to bed. Or any kind of clothing, for that matter.

"You too," he mutters, kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her neck.

She arches, pushing her hips against his and tipping her head back. "What?"

 _What what?_ "Nothing, shh, talking." Both of his hands are on her ass now, holding her as she begins to move against him, up and down, driving him quickly insane. Dragging his tongue down the side of her neck, he wonders if she'll let him get away with marking her, and decides to try.

That moan was definitely hers.

For a second, then, he thinks about stopping. And not just stopping, but _stopping_ stopping, because this, for them, is new, and big, and maybe everything -- good and bad -- the past four years have been building towards, and the last thing he wants is for it all to come crashing down around him because she's got him so turned on and head over fucking heels in love with her that he can't think straight long enough to _not_ fuck it all up and.

"Tony," she breathes out, turning her head and kissing him hard, her mouth slanting over his and her tongue slicking over his teeth.

And _fuck_ crashing; he'll fly this thing so high gravity'll never catch them again.

Bringing his hands up, he collects the hem of her -- his -- t-shirt and strips it off her. As she wraps her arms around his shoulders, he smoothes his palms back down her spine to --

He pulls back slightly. "When have you been borrowing my clothes?"

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she gives him a somewhat stunned look. "You want to ask me this now? _Really?_ "

Well, _no_ , but. "You're the one who --"

Tightening her embrace, she throws her weight to the side, pulling him down onto the mattress with her. His sentence dies a sudden death as she rolls on top of him.

"You're right." He runs a hand over her ass, down her thigh. "We should discuss it later."

She rolls her eyes. "I can wait."

"Can't wait," he corrects, pressing the words into her collarbone. " _Can't_."

"Can."

"Can't."

"Tony --"

He pulls back and grins. "Ziva?"

Her hand slips between them, trailing across his abdomen, lower, until she's pressing the heel of her hand against his dick. " _Later_."

Later's good. Later'll be fucking fantastic if now's anything to go by. Twisting her hair around his fist, he kisses her, his free hand moving to cup her breast. She arches against him, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pushing them down. As her hand wraps around his dick, he jerks against her uncontrollably, making a sound that's not even close to being a word in any language. She grins.

"Evil," he mutters, his fingers on her breast, stroking. "I'm walking wounded here, remember?"

"We are not walking," she says, pulling back and removing his sweats completely. "And you feel fine."

He leers at her. "Thank you." Stretching, he drags a hand around her hip, cupping her sex. When she grinds into his touch, a few dozen more brain cells fry. _So. Damn. Hot._ "You feel pretty fine, too."

Swinging her leg over his, she straddles him again, her hips still moving against his hand. "I was referring," she licks her lips, "to your health."

"You're a doctor, now?" Bending his knees, he plants his feet on the mattress and bucks once, toppling her forward. As she falls against his chest, he slides a finger inside her, ridiculously proud to hear her gasp his name.

Drawing in a deep breath, she nips at his collarbone before raising her head and meeting his grin. "Better." Her smirk is wicked. "Trained investigator."

There's a joke there, a filthy one, but before he can start it, she pulls his hand away and settles herself over him. He's not inside her when she begins to rock against him in a slow, stroking rhythm, but the feel of her, all slick wet heat, rubbing along his dick, is more than enough to make his lungs contract and his chest tighten and his hands grip her waist.

Gritting his teeth, he scrambles his brain for his college football plays, for Magnum episode titles by aired date, for the serial numbers of every service weapon he's ever had -- anything to keep from coming just from the sight and sound and feel of Ziva getting herself off on his dick.

(She's going to kill him. Kill him _dead_. And, yeah, he's known that for a couple of years now, but going _this_ way? So never what he was expecting.)

" _Zi_." _God, please, now_ , Ziva, _just_. He can't even. He just can't.

Stopping -- _oh God_ \-- she leans down and kisses him, all tongue and teeth and lips, his hands now on her breasts, her knees pressing against his sides, and it's one of the hottest kisses of his _life_ probably, definitely a silver screen curtain closer, and that's when he feels her hand on his dick, guiding him into her.

He's pretty sure he whites out for a split-second.

Thrusting up, he wraps his arms around her, holds tight, and rolls them to the side. She gasps against his mouth as he settles on top of her, pulling out and then sinking back in deep.

"Ohevet," she says, breaking the kiss, "ohevet otcha," and he has no idea what that means, only that her body arches into his as she says it, her legs hooking around his waist, until it feels like she is _everywhere_.

Planting one hand on the mattress, he raises himself above her as best he can, his other hand moving to grasp her hip, her thigh, slowing driving in and out of her, grinding on each down-thrust until he's catching her clit just right and her whole body is arched and tense beneath him, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Her hands curve over his shoulders, his upper arms, and when she starts to come, her fingernails sink into his muscles, faltering his rhythm and snapping his hips against hers hard and fast and, fuck, she feels so unbelievably good he almost can't believe it.

"Oh," she says, " _oh_ ," and then she's kissing him again, wet and messy, her thighs squeezing his hips and her inner muscles fluttering around his dick, and he tries to concentrate, tries to hold back and draw this out a little more, a little longer, tries to make this _last_ , damnit, because it's too long since his last time and never with her and it's been four years, four fucking years of foreplay and --

" _Ziva_." He kisses her back and comes, just like that.

(It's kinda perfect.)

  


* * *

  


They kiss, little shallow kisses that shouldn't feel as intimate as everything else they've just done, but do. He's still inside her, still pressing her into the mattress, and he knows he needs to move but that would require having some form of control over his nervous system and he's not sure he's there yet.

"Okay?" he manages, letting go of her hip and pulling back just enough to see her clearly. He touches his fingers to her forehead and draws them down the side of her face, tucking stray curls of hair behind her ear.

She gives him that smile again, that one he almost never gets to see. "Okay."

 _Okay_. He grins.

  


* * *

  


They shower together, still kissing and touching. In the morning light streaming into his bathroom, he runs his palms over the soft braille of her scars, and feels her map his in return.

It's a strangely quiet moment, just them and the dawn and the rush of warm water on slick skin as he comes in her hand, as she comes on his.

He wouldn't change an instant of it.

  


* * *

  


He twists and turns in front of the mirror as he shaves, trying to see his back.

"What are you doing?" she asks, standing in the doorway. She's changed her shirt into the spare one she keeps in her car, but the rest of her outfit is what she was wearing yesterday. He wonders if anyone at the Yard will notice.

"Looking for bruises," he says, still twisting. When he catches her expression, he clarifies, "from the _fall_ , Ms Gutter Brain. I am surprisingly painless and uncolourful following my attempt at bungee-free jumping."

She blinks. "You seriously do not remember?"

"Remember what?"

She looks a little embarrassed. "You did not fall."

"I... didn't?" Putting down his razor, he turns to face her. "Then how --"

Definitely embarrassed; her reply is mumbled and incomprehensible.

"Didn't quite catch that..."

Huffing out a breath, she folds her arms defensively. "I _said_ \-- I fell."

He suddenly has a good idea as to where this might be going. Smiling, he prompts her. "And..."

She glares. "And you caught me." Quickly, she points at him. "At which point you then tripped over your own two feet and hit your head against the wall, knocking yourself unconscious."

His grin fades. That part's less awesome. Still -- "I caught you."

"... yes."

"I _saved_ you."

"Tony --"

"I'm your _her_ \--" She's already walking away. He raises his voice. "You know, you could say thank you!"

He's pretty sure her muffled response from the other room is not one of gratitude.

Grinning, he turns back to the mirror.

  


* * *

  


With his car still at the Yard, Ziva drives them in, apparently unconcerned with the fact that he has already filled his death wish quota for the week.

"Not looking for a return trip to the hospital, Probie," he says, white-knuckling the dash.

She ignores him, down-shifting for the next corner, and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch.

They're driving into the parking lot when she says, "Tony?"

Opening his eyes, he looks over. "Mmm?"

Her hands tighten briefly on the steering wheel. "Todah."

He smiles. "Prego."

  


* * *

  


Abby's left flowers and a cupcake on his desk, which is an infinitely happier welcome than the look McGee gives him.

"Wasn't me, McJump-to-Conclusions," he says, holding up his hands. "I was framed."

McGee gives him a look that says _nice try_. "You owe me one-ninety-nine, Tony."

"Two hundred bucks for a popstick with lights?" He shakes his head, incredulous. "I'll buy you a candle. It's about time you went green, anyway."

"McGee!" With impeccable timing, Gibbs walks over and cuts off the no doubt impending tech-tirade. "MTAC."

As the two of them head for the stairs, Tony places his sidearm in his desk drawer and takes his seat, flicking the switch on his computer. Across from him, Ziva's doing the same.

"You owe me," he says.

"I will pay for the replacement."

Nothing about owning up, he notes. "And the cost to my reputation?"

She smirks. "What reputation?"

"Oh, ha ha." Turning back to his computer, he watches his inbox flood with close to two day's worth of emails. Sorting them by sender, he starts filtering out the junk.

"Are you really planning on leaving NCIS for NASA?"

For a second he has absolutely no idea why she would ask that. Then he remembers. "That depends, I guess."

"On?" Her poker face is impeccable, not even a trace of emotion seeping through.

He leers. "On whether you're willing to wear the gold metal bikini uniform."

She knows it's a movie reference -- the eraser she throws at his head proves that -- but he'd bet dollars to donuts she doesn't know which one.

" _Return of the Jedi_ , 1983." He deletes a lunch invitation from Amy in Legal. "Concluding chapter in the _Star Wars_ trilogy."

She snaps her fingers. "Ewan McGregor, yes?"

He scowls. "Those three don't count." He clicks into an email trail between him, her and McGee and finds copies of the goof shots from the crime scene at Dodson's. There's a particularly unflattering shot of him bending over to pick up barbequed scraps, and a particularly awesome shot of Ziva doing the same. He saves hers to his memory stick.

"I liked his," she waves her hand at the back of her head, "pig-tail?"

"Rat-tail, and it was terrible. Remind me again why I love you?"

There's a pause as she stares at him; he keeps his eyes on his computer screen and waits and resists the urge to backtrack -- too soon? too much? _hell_. Then she sighs. "Yes, Tony, I will watch the Jedi sequel with you."

Oh yeah. _That's why_. Grinning, he clicks into his next email. "Bring popcorn."

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/397986.html>


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